


In Between the Dark and the Light

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Dreams, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 02, Second Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of their father's death, Dean deals with things one way during the day and another while he sleeps. For Sam, the line between the two isn't quite so clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Tuesday**

Five weeks after his dad died, Dean dreamed about the demon.

At first it’s the yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch.

Then it’s his dad.

The demon.

His dad.

They both have the same message: their lips curl around the words with the same selfish grin, their eyes boring into his with a smugness that makes his face ache.

“You’re gonna have to kill him, Dean,” the demon whispers, twisting his name into an obscenity.

In the dream, Dean cocks a shotgun, brings it to his shoulder.

The demon laughs.

“No, son,” his dad says, a smile playing on his lips. “Not me. You’re gonna have to kill Sam.”

Dean squints, takes aim.

The demon shakes his head, chuckling to himself, and turns his back to Dean.

“Not gonna kill me, son,” it growls. “Shoot me if it makes you feel better, but—”

Dean pulls the trigger, watches the shell catch his father in the back. The powder explodes, covers the demon in black dust.

The demon, his father, the demon, it turns back, face blackened, blood pouring from its mouth, its smile undimmed. “Not me, Dean,” his dad says again, licking the blood from his lips. “It’s Sam. You’re gonna have to kill Sam.”

And then the demon is in Dean’s face, the stink of blood like a bit in Dean’s mouth.

“Yes,” the demon says, its eyes filling with light. “Kill him. Unless you want me to have him.”

Dean bolted up with a gasp, the light from the demon’s eyes stabbing into his own.

But.

No.

It was just the streetlight cutting through the curtains.

But he didn't close his eyes again until the sun came up. Just to be sure.

 

**  
 **Wednesday**

They were at some truck stop in Indiana, along with every other driver in a 200-mile radius, apparently, because they were all ahead of Dean in line at 7-11. He'd been staring at the same bag of Hot Fries for what felt like hours and he was bouncing with nerves, jittery from the lack of sleep and stupid with six hours of driving under his belt. He checked out the guy in front of him again: a big dude with battered jeans, weedy hair, and a container of chewing tobacco wedged into his back pocket. Nice.

Something about the guy irked Dean. Made his shoulders itch and his fingers flex.

"Dude," said Sam, thwacking him with a pack of Twizzlers. "What is your problem?"

“Nothing,” Dean scowled, not bothering to turn around, his eyes still locked on chaw guy, who was rustling through _US Weekly_ and leering at pictures of Jennifer Aniston. Or was that Miley Cyrus?

Sam snorted, rattled the ice in his Big Gulp behind Dean's ear. "Whatever, Twitchy."

Dean turned, glaring. "Shut up, Sam," he hissed, frustration curling out of his mouth, tension rattling in his voice.

Sam raised an eyebrow and smirked as the line edged forward, barely. "What's the matter? Your Twinkies getting cold?"

Dean ignored him. Felt his dream creeping up behind him, the demon snickering over his shoulder.

Another minute ticked by.

Two.

Dean stared straight ahead. Refused to acknowledge his father’s gory grin. Curled his fingers around an imaginary shotgun.

He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes. Shook the images out of his head. Let his hands feel empty.

Finally, he couldn't keep still.

"Damn it! What in the hell is taking so long?” he bitched under his breath. He felt Sam shift behind him, sensed that huge head looming over his, craning to see the counter.

Dean shook his Twinkies gently, focused on getting them unstuck from the plastic, on staying centered, on reminding himself that he was awake. The plastic always pulled off the top layer of cake, and that was the best part. Everybody knew that.

Sam settled back down, took a long pull from his soda. "Someone's paying for gas in pennies," he reported. "And the guy behind him can't decide between Marlboro Red and Camel Lights."

Dean sighed again, louder this time, feeling ready to fucking snap. "Goddamn it!" he growled with enough venom to earn a stare from the big dude, who, Dean noted, had moved on to _Cosmo_.

"Hey, I'm readin' here," the guy said, shaking the magazine at him. "Do you mind?"

"Does this look like a fucking library?" Dean snarled, leaning into Cosmo’s face.

Sam was between them before the guy could respond.

"Sorry," Sam said, his eyes calm, his voice wide and apologetic. "Sorry. My brother's been driving all day, and he's a little out of it, aren't you, Dean?"

"Out of it my ass," Dean muttered, but Sam narrowed his eyes in just the right way and Dean caved, against his better judgment. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right, dude,” he said, giving the guy his fakest smile. “I'm burnt. Sorry about that."

Sam gave Cosmo his best see-what-I-have-to-deal-with? face and shrugged good-naturedly, willing the big guy to do the same. The line lurched forward as the penny man left and Cosmo chuckled, looked Dean right in the eye.

"Maybe you'd better wait in the car then, princess," he said, his voice real low and jovial and by god, Dean wanted to punch him in the face, Twinkie damage be damned. His lips twisted, his fists clenched, but Sam caught his shoulder, snatched the snacks from his hands, and pushed him towards the door.

"Just go," he hissed. "This asshole isn't worth it." Dean gave Cosmo one last glare—the bastard waved!—and let Sam shove him outside. He squinted in the sun and stalked over to the car, muttering under his breath.

Goddamn stupid dream.

**  
Later, Sam shook his head, snapped a Twizzler at the windshield as they drove.

"Dude," he said.

"What?" Dean snapped, cramming the last of a Twinkie into his mouth.

"Since when do you get into pissing matches with random truckers?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It was not a pissing match, Sam, I—"

"You're damn right it wasn't. Because I stopped it."

Dean shook his head, kept his eyes fixed on the road. "Yeah, you're a big fucking hero. Keeping quickie marts safe for truth, justice, and the American way. Ya saved the world today, kiddo: congratulations."

He could hear Sam scowl, felt him dig back into the seat.

"Whatever," he huffed. "What-the-fuck-ever.”

They rode in silence for a while, the mile markers slipping by, the sun turning west towards the horizon.

“I should have let that guy punch you,” Sam said firmly, fifty miles down the road.

Dean snorted. “You mean, you should have let me punch him.”

Sam thought about this.

“No, I had it right the first ti—OW!” he squawked as Dean’s fist slammed into his shoulder. “Hey! Eyes on the road, jerk!”

Dean grinned at him. “I can drive and fight at the same time, babe. Don’t you forget it.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, ok, Dean. Whatever you say.”

“That’s right, bitch.”

Dean could practically hear Sam’s eyes roll.

The ride was quiet again until Dean had to flip on the headlights against the dark. Sam stretched, leaned forward, tried to peer out of the windshield.

“How much further?” Dean asked, swallowing a yawn. He heard Sam rustling through the maps, mumbling to himself.

“Um,” said Sam after a minute. “About 300 miles. We can be there by noon tomorrow if we—”

But Dean had already taken the nearest exit, swinging the Impala around an ancient off ramp.

“—stop for the night,” Sam finished.

“Right,” Dean said, nodding sagely. “I knew you’d say that.”

Sam laughed, chucking the last stale Twizzler at Dean’s head. “Riiight. ‘Cause you’re the psychic in the family, asshole.”

Dean blinked, blamed it on the gaudy neon sign they passed as he turned into the motel parking lot.

“Naw, Sammy,” he said after a minute. “You’re just predictable as shit.” In a flash, his hand shot up and he caught the cassette Sam chucked at his head without looking. The car settled to a stop and Dean tipped his head back, grinning.

“Don’t mess with the master, young Jedi,” he intoned, winging _Bad Company_ back into Sam’s chest. Sam barked with laughter and they slid out, the promise of hot showers and clean sheets calling them home.

**  
That night, Dean dreamed about the demon again. His dad. The demon.

But this time he doesn't even get the shot off before the bastard is in his face, before Dean is covered in blood and black powder and he wakes up with his father's fingers locked around his throat, the demon's laugh caught in his heart.

After that, he didn’t sleep.

**  
 **Thursday**

The next morning, it was raining.

“Goddamn it!” Dean bitched, booting his laundry across the room.

Sam stared at him, his face half hidden by a clean t- shirt. “What the hell, Dean,” he said through the fabric, his head reappearing like an exclamation point.

“It’s raining!” Dean barked, snarling at his reflection in the window. Ignoring the dark circles under his eyes.

“No shit, Mr. Wizard,” Sam said, wandering over to peer past Dean’s head. “So what? Did you leave the window down in the car again?”

For a brief, terrible second, Dean thought: _oh my god I did!_ and then: _wait a second_ —!

“Bitch!” he shouted, ramming his elbow back into Sam’s ribs. “Not funny!”

Sam flew back, yelping, smacking Dean’s head on the way. “Dude,” he huffed. “Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? What are you gonna do, go punch a raindrop in the face?”

Dean went for his duffel, grumbling. “Rain’ll slow us down,” he managed after a minute. “Now it’ll take us all goddamn day to get to Springfield. None of these fucking morons know how to drive in the rain!” He pounded his clothes for emphasis, shoving his socks deeper into the bag. Felt Sam staring at the back of his head.

“Uh huh,” Sam said dubiously. “So—you’ve been wound up for like, two days now because it might rain? That dude at 7-11 yesterday—that was you launching a preemptive strike against Mother Nature?”

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean growled, yanking open the door, tugging his duffel behind.

“Love you too, Dean,” Sam sang.

Outside, Dean stomped through the rain, dropped his keys in a puddle, felt water slide under his collar, and he knew it was gonna be a long damn day.

**  
That night, they were stretched out in a dark field outside of Springfield, Missouri, staring back towards a tract of everyday houses: swing-sets, grills, and big fat fences with locks.

Welcome the fuck home, America.

Dean sighed and handed the binoculars back to Sam.

“At least it stopped raining,” Sam volunteered, propping himself on his elbows and training the glasses towards the nearest house.

“Yeah,” Dean said, shifting in the muddy grass. “Awesome.”

They’d been out there for a couple of hours, waiting. Normally, Dean liked stakeouts. Good excuse for cheap coffee and high fructose corn syrup. For dirty jokes and Sam-centric insults. He could usually get Zen that way, staring at somebody’s back door for eight hours at a stretch, just waiting for something to happen. A Winchester’s kind of meditation.

But he couldn’t focus. That stupid dream hung over him, kept clawing at his brain, kept shooting the smell of blood and gunpowder and sulphur up into his head.

He knew that the easiest thing would be to just tell Sam what their father had said already. Not the twisted version that Dad and the demon repeated endlessly in his dreams. Not that. Just the truth: save him or kill him. When he was awake, Dean refused to acknowledge the “or,” because there was no option other than saving Sam. Period.

But when he slept, god, when he slept, all of his fear and anxiety and the terrible not-knowing wound together and drove knives into his head, made him think that killing Sammy might be the only option. Saving him: that was the real dream.

Fuck, was he tired.

Sam jerked beside him, hissing: “Dean!”

Dean snapped back and peered at the shadowy figure moving across the deck of the nearest house. They watched together, eyes trained, breathing in time, and for a second, everything felt normal. Their kind of normal, anyway. Straightforward, almost, maybe for the first time since Dad died. A monster, a hunt, a kill. The two of them thinking in sync.

The thing slid past the back door, hesitated for a moment—then scuttled up the drainpipe, spindly arms flailing, streaking up towards the roof.

“Son of a—!” Dean grunted, leaping out of the grass.

They bolted across the lawn, shotguns in tow.

And Dean was glad, happy to move, ready to strike. Relieved that he didn't have to think, that he didn't have time to worry, that the dream couldn't get at him because he was too busy doing what he was supposed to do. What he was meant for.

But he knew it wouldn't last.

**  
 **Saturday**

Two days later, neither of them saw the car coming.

 _Probably_ , Dean thought that night, watching Sam slide gingerly under the covers, _because that asshole in the Honda ran a red light. Or a stop sign. Or failed to yield._

Whatever. It was totally that other guy’s fault. Or Sammy’s.

It sure as hell hadn’t had anything to do with his decision to keep driving, even as he ran on less than fumes, on 48 hours of coffee and catnaps. 48 hours of no sleep. And no dreams.

Yeah.

Things had started to go bad when Sam started bitching. Shocker.

“Dude,” he’d said, his voice sloppy with sleep. “Can we please pull over? Find a motel or—”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Dean had announced. “No place to stop!” Just like he'd planned.

“Just pull over or something,” Sam had whined, clutching his head. “Come on, man. Just for a few hours. I need to sleep.”

“That’s why I’m driving, Sam!” Dean had chirped, reaching for his coffee. “You take yourself a little nappy-nap and I’ll just—” he’d waved his cup at the road “—keep on trucking.”

Even Sam’s sigh has been pissed. “Jesus Christ!” he’d snapped. “What is with you? You’re acting like a fucking maniac.”

“What?” Dean had called, twisting up the volume, hiding behind the music the chorus the noise. “I can’t hear you, Sammy.”

“Dean!” Sam had yelped. “You are such an ass! Pull over!”

Dean had shaken his head and pressed the accelerator. “Go the fuck to sleep!” he’d bellowed over the music.

“Fuck you!” Sam had shouted.

Then he’d grabbed his head and buckled over.

Dean had turned, suddenly afraid. “Sam?” he’d shouted, trying to keep one eye on the road. “Sammy?”

Sam hadn’t answered, his head caught between his knees.

“Jesus!” Dean had sworn, feeling fear dig into his heart. “Hang on, Sammy—hang on!”

He’d twisted the wheel, one hand reaching for Sam, when the asshole in the goddamn red Honda had come of nowhere. Dean had stomped on the brakes, sent the Impala spinning across the pavement and into the ditch, Sam's head bouncing off the dash with a resounding thud that Dean could feel in his teeth. The Honda had sped off, leaving Dean swearing in its wake.

 _Oh yeah_ , thought Dean later. _It was all Sammy's fault._

He reached over and patted Sam’s leg under the blanket. “And you were totally faking it!” he clucked. “No vision or anything. Just you acting like a little bitch. As usual.”

Sam groaned, clutching a pillow over his head.

“I mean, come on, you’re fakin’ it now? Just tell me when it’s not good for you, baby.”

Sam slid further into the sheets. “C’mon,” he whimpered. “I said I was sorry. Can’t you just let me sleep?”

Dean declared Operation: Fuck With Sammy a success and got up, reaching for his coffee cup. “Yep. You do that. ‘Night.”

Sam looked at him. “What? Aren’t you gonna sleep?”

Dean laughed, a little too loud. “Pshaw,” he said. “I’m not tired. Plus I—unlike some people—did not bang my giant melon on the dashboard.”

“Dean,” Sam groaned, retreating under the pillow.

“Look,” Dean said seriously, “if you can’t remember to put on your seatbelt, maybe we need to invest in a car seat.”

Sam squawked and bolted upright, chucking a pillow at Dean’s head. “You weren’t wearing your seatbelt!” he yelped. “You never wear a seatbelt!”

“Yup,” Dean nodded, cupping his chin. “But I—unlike some people—am not a Sasquatch, so I don’t have to worry about keeping my freakishly large limbs under control.”

Sam laughed, grimacing, and clutched his head. “Ow! Don’t make me laugh, Dean. Head hurts,” he said, his voice slurry.

For a moment, Dean heard Sammy at 10, squirmy and heavy with fever, laughing at the interrupting cow joke for like the millionth time in a row. Begging Dean to tell it again.

He reached for the lamp. “Sleep, Sam,” he commanded.

He perched in the ancient armchair and sipped his coffee. Watched headlights play over the cheap curtains. Listened to the air conditioner as it rattled and sighed, hummed and rumbled, and finally settled into a steady rhythm. He took a deep breath and started to relax.

“Dean,” Sam said suddenly in the dark. “You need to sleep.”

Dean sighed. “Shut the fuck up, concussion boy. Don’t make me hit you over the head again.”

Sam snorted and slid back under his pillow. “Wha’eva, Dee,” he mumbled.

Dean sighed again and tipped the chair back. He counted the beats between Sam’s snores and waited for the sun to come up.

**  
 **Sunday**

After breakfast, he handed the keys to Sam without a word.

Sam stared at him. “Dude?”

“Sam,” Dean deadpanned.

“You want me to drive?”

“No, I want you to carry the keys out to the car for me,” Dean snapped. “Yes, I want you drive! Jesus. How hard did you hit your fucking head, anyway?” He patted his baby’s hood. “You’re lucky that you didn’t get her hurt, you know. Your head would be the least of your problems.”

Sam sighed and reached for the door handle.

“I mean, thank goodness I spent like five days on her brakes last month,” Dean continued. “She’s as tight as a Catholic schoolgirl’s—”

“Ok!” Sam barked. “Jesus. Do you two need a minute alone?"

Dean grinned and slid into the passengers’ side.

Sam got in, grumbling, fumbling for the ignition. He looked up, looked over at Dean. “You know, you must really be fucked up,” he said, holding Dean’s eye, “if you’re letting concussion boy drive.”

Dean tried not to flinch. Felt his shoulders slump. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Let’s just go already.”

“Mmmhhmm,” Sam said, turning the key. “Why don’t you catch some ZZZs? We won’t get to Pine Bluff until this afternoon.”

Dean shook his head, his eyes drooping. He felt Sam’s giant arm swing behind his head as they pulled out into the street. “’M not sleepy,” Dean mumbled, the words sloshing out of his mouth.

“Ok, champ,” Sam said, gliding through an intersection. “Whatever you say.”

Dean watched the trees fly by, the houses. The cars.

The road.

He rested his head against the window.

The road.

The road.

He slipped down into sleep.

**  
Dean dreamed of flowers, big gold fluffy ones that looked like pom-poms.

He’s swimming through an ocean of these fat flowers, the heavy petals drifting over his eyes, brushing past his cheeks. He breathes them in, feels them spin out of his mouth.

With every rush of wind, the flowers tug him along, cradling his body as they move.

He trails his fingers down their stems. He cups the blossoms, lets them sleep inside his palm. The sky sways above him, purple and gold and wine, and he floats hazily, happily, through a golden, living sea.

Yes.

Then he exhales and long trails of black smoke rise above him, reaching up into the silver sky. The flowers rush him, clamoring and crashing around him, their petals swelling with grey and black and white as yellow oozes from their pores.

He opens his mouth to scream, but it’s not his voice that comes out.

“You’re gonna have to kill me, Dean,” Sam’s voice says, hovering over him.

He tries to shake his head, _no_ , but the flowers hold him fast.

“Yes,” the voice says, and now it’s his own. “Yes, you will.” His voice tilts its swollen head, reaches out and sucks the colors from his eyes—the brown, the green, the grey—and spits them into the blackening sea.

“Stop waiting for something bad to happen, Dean,” his voice murmurs, shades of the yellow-eyed demon coming through, his father’s voice tripping just behind. “Do it. Now.”

Dean grimaces, tries to yank his voice back into his throat, but his voice, their voices, just laugh.

“Stop waiting, Dean,” the demon coos.

“Stop waiting, Dean,” his father orders.

“Stop waiting, Dean!” Sam pleads.

Dean yanked himself awake, felt his breath catching in his throat.

The car was stopped. He peered out and saw a motor court. Saw Sam in the front office, going through the motions, checking in.

Right. Pine Bluff. Some case Sam had picked up online: two dudes ripped to shreds on the same night, their bodies dumped at the bottom of a quarry. Mysterious circumstances. Blah blah blah Arkansas.

The sun hovered over the horizon, debating whether to put in some overtime. He checked his watch. 6:30. Damn it. And now he remembered why he didn’t let Sammy drive: he was a fucking old lady behind the wheel.

Sam opened the driver’s side door and Dean jumped straight up.

“Gah!”

Sam grinned at him. “Did I scare you, honey?”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, reaching for the door handle. “Why the hell did it take you all fucking day to go 300 miles?”

Sam had the decency to look hurt. “Dude, not everyone drives 90 miles an hour like you.”

“No shit,” Dean growled, yanking his bag out of the trunk. He swayed a little and pretended not to notice. “At least we can scope out that quarry tonight.”

“Um,” said Sam, not looking at him. “Actually, the quarry road is closed. The creek flooded it out a couple of days ago and they haven’t—”

“Jesus!” Dean barked, snatching the room key from Sam’s hand. “This just gets better and better, Sammy.” He burst into the room and hurled his bag at the nearest bed. And missed.

Sam stepped in after him and closed the door gently. “Yeah, ok,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought you’d feel better after some sleep.”

It was all Dean could do not to punch him. He took a breath instead. Two more. “I’m fine,” he managed.

“Yeah, you’re awesome, Dean,” Sam said. “That’s why you’re physically assaulting your laundry.”

Dean looked down and saw his favorite henley twisted in his hands. He leaned over and set it gently on the bed, patted it, looked back up at Sam. “There,” he said. “My shirt and I have resolved our differences. Peacefully.”

Sam snorted. “I’m so glad,” he said, tossing his bag on the other bed, reaching for his laptop. “I was ready to call in Snuggle Bear for an intervention.”

“Hey!” Dean barked, pointing. “That bear is a creepy little bastard! Seriously! Look at his eyes! That fucker would shiv you in your sleep, no question.”

“Next time we come across haunted fabric softener, it’s all yours.”

“Fuck off, Sam.”

“Go take a shower. I’ll order a pizza.”

Dean reached for a clean shirt. “Fine. But no mushrooms this time, bitch.”

“What’s that?” Sam called as Dean closed the bathroom door. “You want mushrooms? Anything for you, Dean.”

“Bitch!” Dean shouted over the water, tugging himself under the spray.

“Jerk!” Sam yelled back.

Dean leaned back into the water, turned it up as hot as he could. He tried to scrub the black petals off of his skin, tried to wash the sound of Sam’s dream-voice out of his head.

“Stop waiting, Dean!” Sam pleads.

“Stop waiting, Dean,” his father orders.

“Stop waiting, Dean,” the demon coos.

“Jesus,” Dean whispered, pressing his forehead to the tile wall.

 

**  
 **Monday**

The next night, Dean didn't even try to sleep. He waited until Sam was in the shower, scrawled some bullshit note, and bolted for the parking lot.

They'd spent a long, hot day trooping from house to house, going from sad relative to drunk friend, asking the same questions across two lives, two dead guys, and getting the same answers: He was well-liked. A fucking good dude. Pine Bluff born and raised; hell, his family goes all the way back. No enemies, not since high school. Decent marriage, most of the time, even if his Brenda was a bitch; even if his second wife was 10 years younger than the first one. Worked 15 years at the paper mill, at his dad's hardware store. Drank too much, that son-of-a-bitch, but who doesn't out here, am I right?

And no ghosts or haunted houses or family tragedies that anyone could remember. Or was willing to tell them about, anyway.

Two lives, two dead guys, lying in a shallow grave at the bottom of the quarry.

Everyone seemed real interested in the murders, but no one that they'd talked to seemed to really care about justice or finding the ones that did this or any of the usual crap they collected on days like these.

It pissed Dean off, all these people not giving a shit.

Even the cops had been pretty blasé about it: they'd already released the bodies—"what was left of 'em," the deputy had said, grinning—to the families and both men had been cremated, ashes already potted and dispersed.

The deputy was convinced it was a bear. The sheriff had his money on a wild boar. "Hell, could have even been a pack of wild dogs," he'd honked, tipping back in his chair. "Who knows?"

"Isn't it your job to find out?" Dean had snarled, not really meaning to but not sorry to see the sheriff turn bright red, to hear him try and bluster some bullshit response.

He'd been quiet for most of the day, hanging back and letting Sam take the lead, shake the hands, nod understandingly.

But this asshole? Dean had heard enough.

Sam didn't say much on the drive home, but he shot Dean enough furrowed brows and emo frowns to make it clear that he was worried.

So worried that he might ask Dean about it. Might even want to talk about it, later.

And, hell, he was too tired to fake it, even with Sam.

Especially with Sam.

But he sure as fuck didn't want to sleep, didn't want to tangle with the demon his dad with Sam in his dreams. He needed a rest from all that.

So no sleep.

So he drove, blindly at first, just following the road out of town, until the dimly lit houses gave way to stark black fields and broken-down houses. Scrubby pine trees that nudged the power lines and covered up the moon.

After a while, he just let his eyes rest on the dotted yellow line: endlessly repeating, multiplying, flying beneath him.

He drifted, letting the car, the lines, the road carry him along.

But a truck flew past him in the other lane, its headlights catching him in the eyes just right and that damn dream clamped its hand over his mouth, his father’s voice, the demon’s voice, Sammy’s voice ringing in his head.

“Stop waiting,” they shrieked in unison, the demon’s laughter curling behind them, leaving a long dark trail that coiled around Dean’s heart.

He yanked the car to a stop, gravel flying over the hood as he wrestled her onto the shoulder. He leaned his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

Quiet. Made himself think.

Damn it. He just had to get it over with, had to just tell Sam what their dad had said, all of it, even the “or.” He knew this, knew he couldn’t keep it from Sam forever, and some part of him wanted to tell Sam so bad it hurt. But the rest of him, the Winchester part of him, resisted, digging its claws into his heart, holding fast to duty and responsibility and all that other bullshit he’d been dragging around since he was four: to keep Sammy safe.

So.

It was better to keep Sam in the dark, then, to let him sleep through the night with only the visions to fear. Because he knew his brother, better than anybody, and he knew exactly how Sam would react: he’d beat himself up for evil shit he hadn’t even done yet, that he might never do! Would drag himself through the ringer again and again and again and there wouldn’t be a damn thing that Dean could to do stop him.

And part of Dean wouldn’t want to stop him, because part of him wanted to see Sammy punished for all the crap he would put Dean through, someday, no matter what happened.

But Sam wasn’t a kid anymore. He didn’t belong to Dean in the same way, now, and Dean knew that he didn’t have the right to control his life. If he ever had.

But then, he also knew that he wasn’t keeping the secret for Sam’s sake.

Hell no.

It was for him.

It had made him crazy, this past year, not being able to protect Sammy like he once had. Like he told himself he still could, if he only he had the chance.

And this was it.

It was his best chance since Jess to ride to Sammy’s rescue, to take on the darkness so Sammy didn’t have to. He couldn't protect Sam from the visions—he'd accepted that. But this? Something that might never be—would never be, if he had anything to say about it—why lay that on Sam if he didn't have to?

And.

And there was that other thing, the thing he didn't put into words, not even in the most fucked-up part of his brain, even in the middle of the night when it would be so easy to let it slip, to draw comfort from naming it or holding it or just letting himself think, really think about what it would be like if they were—

No.

Not that.

Still.

He knocked his head on the wheel: once, twice. Three times.

He couldn’t tell Sam.

He wouldn’t.

He had to.

**  
He waited until Sammy was almost asleep.

He'd brought back hot Krispy Kreme donuts—passed them off as the reason for his disappearing act—and any hard feelings left over from their shitty day faded away in hot sugar glaze and dark coffee.

Dean even pretended to be sleepy when Sam yawned and stretched and made a grab for the last Bavarian creme.

So Dean switched off the lamp. And he waited.

After a while, he could hear Sam’s breathing winding down, dropping deeper into his chest.

Perfect.

He cleared his throat. “Sam?” he whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Sam asked loudly.

“Uh, I—I was gonna say that—" Dean fumbled.

He heard Sam’s bed groan as Sam flipped himself over and scooted as far away from Dean as he could. “I’m trying to sleep here,” he mumbled into his pillow.

Dean took a breath. “Sam,” he started again.

Sam sighed.

“About what Dad said,” Dean muttered.

The bed shrieked as Sam bolted upright. “What?” he barked.

“About what Dad said,” Dean repeated, slowly. “I—”

The lamp snapped on and Dean recoiled, his retinas screaming. “Jesus!” he yelped. “A little warning next time!” He opened his eyes, blinking, and saw a hazy spectre of Sam glowering at him across the nightstand.

“Well?” Sam demanded, arms clutched across his chest. “What did he say?”

Dean sighed. Looked Sam in the eye.

Damn it. Just get it out.

He'd only have to say it once.

“He said—I should do everything I could to save you from yellow eyes. But if I couldn’t—” he paused, feeling his father’s “or” hanging over them both—”he said I’d have to kill you.”

Sam didn’t move. His expression didn’t change or anything. They just stared at each other for a long moment. Two.

Then all at once, Sam bolted from the bed, flew past Dean, and dove into the bathroom.

Dean didn’t move. Just sat and listened to Sam retch.

He waited.

Sam was gone for a long time.

Dean’s body started to complain, angry about being held in one place for so long.

But he didn’t move.

Then he heard the fan switch off, the bathroom door open, and he made himself turn around.

Sam looked like he’d been asleep for a month: his mouth was slack, his eyes swollen, his face pale and inflamed all at once. He looked at Dean and his eyes were like tar, thick and runny and fast.

“Dean,” he said, his voice cracking.

Dean got to him just as his body buckled, just before his knees scraped the floor. They crumpled down together, Dean cradling Sam’s head and shoulders as they fell. Sam leaned his head back on Dean’s chest and choked, his shoulders shaking.

“Dean,” he croaked again, his voice heavy with grief.

Dean stroked his head, wrapped his other arm as far around Sam’s body as far he could. “I’m right here, Sammy,” he murmured. “Right here. I’ve got you.” He felt Sam shake again, felt hot tears smearing against his chest. So he caught his fingers in Sam’s hair and rocked him back and forth. Didn’t say anything, just patted Sam’s back and crooned wordlessly into his hair.

After a while, he could feel Sam trying to pull himself back together. His arms tensed and his breathing grew deeper. His face cooled against Dean’s chest, tightened, held.

Suddenly Sam pushed himself up, his body slow and awkward. “Dean,” he sighed.

Dean blinked. “Yeah.”

“You have to promise me—if—if I go dark side—you gotta do it. You have to kill me.”

Dean scowled. “Sammy,” he said, warningly.

“No,” Sam said, his voice heavy in his chest. “No. Promise. Promise me, Dean.” He looked into Dean’s face, his own soft and teary.

Dean shook his head. “Damn it, Sam, it won’t come to that, we’ll—”

Sam’s arm shot up and he grabbed Dean’s neck, yanked him forward until they were nose-to-nose. “Promise,” Sam pleaded. “Please.”

Dean stared back at him. Reached up and snaked his fingers around Sam’s wrist. Squeezed. Sighed. “I promise, Sammy,” he murmured. “But it won’t happen. I’ll die before—”

Sam kissed him.

It was over before Dean was totally sure it had happened.

Sam shook him gently, still holding Dean’s neck. “You promised,” he said. “Deal’s done.” He stood up, stumbled towards his bed without looking back.

Dean watched him fall, watched him wind himself into the sheets and disappear under the pillows.

But Dean didn’t move. Just let his arms hang open and empty. Not knowing what the hell to think.

Then he got up, switched off the lamp, and rolled into his bed. Sammy was already asleep, his breathing steady and full in the dark.

Everything was still. The sounds of the night dangled from a thread, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But nothing happened.

Dean closed his eyes and pretended not to notice the tears sliding down his nose, dropping into his mouth. Or his face burning where Sammy had touched him. His fingers aching with the feel of Sam’s wrist.

He ignored all of these things, eventually, and fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday**

After dinner, Sam spread the autopsy reports out on his bed and hovered over them, red marker in hand. He circled the bed, mumbling to himself, occasionally moving a piece of paper from one stack to the next, then back again.

Dean watched through slitted eyes for a while, stretched out on his bare stomach on the other bed. His back, his shoulders, his neck were all beet red, and his head was killing him. They'd spent the afternoon at the quarry, picking fruitlessly over the crime scene, over the deep gash in the quarry floor where the two vics had been found. And fuck was it sunny, and damn if Dean couldn't feel his skin sizzle as they worked. Sam, Mr. Always Be Prepared, was fine: probably showered in SPF 200. But Dean was flambéed, so stiff by the time they got back into town that he couldn't sit up straight at dinner, had to kind of lean forward and to the side all at once and damn if that hadn't made him feel even worse.

He closed his eyes and thought of polar bears. Popsicles and walk-in freezers. Ice packs. Sno-cones. Yeah, a bathtub full of shaved ice. Maybe some cherry syrup. Or blue raspberry. He sighed and buried his head in the coverlet.

“Dean,” Sam said. “Dean?”

Dean shook his head, didn’t open his eyes. “What?” he mumbled. He could feel Sam leaning over him.

“Are you ok?”

Dean snorted, turned his head. “That would be a no, Sam. I’m burned to a fucking crisp here.”

“And you didn’t put on sunscreen because—?”

“Because I am not Scarlett-fucking-O’Hara,” Dean growled. “I don’t worry about maintaining my lily white skin.”

He could hear Sam’s grin hanging in his voice. “And you know who Scarlett O’Hara is because—?”

“Because,” Dean huffed, “you make me watch it every time it comes on TV.”

“Once!” Sam protested. “When I was ten! I was going through a Civil War phase!”

Dean snorted again, pressed his forehead against the bed. “More like a hoopskirt phase,” he muttered.

Sam laughed. “Whatever. I wasn’t the one trying to look up her petticoats.”

“What’s a petticoat?” Dean asked the mattress.

“Can I get you something? A wet washcloth? Maybe some ice? Or—?”

“Beer,” Dean ordered.

“Dude, you’re already dehydrated. Drinking beer is gonna make it worse.”

“Look, Dr. Oz,” Dean said, turning his head again and opening his eyes. “I don’t want a lecture. I would like a beer. Please.” Somewhere above him, he heard Sam sigh, saw a blur move towards the cooler.

“Fine,” Sam said a moment later, crouching in front of him. “But I don’t wanna hear you bitching in the middle of the night that you feel like crap. Because it’s your own damn fault.”

“Awesome bedside manner, Sammy,” Dean scowled, turning his hand over and opening his palm. “Beer.”

**  
Dean couldn’t sleep.

For the first time in a week, he actually wanted to sleep, and he couldn’t. He felt liked he’d earned it, a good eight hours of angst-free snoozing. No dreams the night before, which had been awesome, but he still felt like he’d slept with one eye open, just waiting for the dream to sneak up on him.

This morning, before he’d been fucking toasted, he’d actually been feeling a little better about the whole thing. He’d told Sam, hadn’t he? Had agreed not to carry the weight alone. It was out there, between them, and they’d figure it out together, damn it. They would.

And the stupid dream had finally left him alone.

And hell, Sam hadn't said a word about it all day. No mention of the potential fratricide in their future. Or of his laying one on Dean in the middle of the night. Nope. Just a regular old day, sailing along at the job.

Dean had been tempted to ask him about it as they made their way back up the hill above the quarry—slipping and skidding between the trees, tripping over fat grey rocks, the roar of the creek in their ears. Perfect time to bring it up, when Sam couldn’t see him, couldn’t even turn around to look without falling face first back down the hill.

But he'd let it go. Hadn't wanted to push it. Because, hey, he’d done his part. Shared his pain or whatever. Gotten the goddamn demon monkey off his back, apparently. Laid it all on Sammy, for better or worse. So why poke the bear if he didn't have to?

And tonight he’d felt like crap and he sure as hell didn't want to have Sam go all Oprah on him while he couldn't even fucking move.

Now, if only he wasn’t a human Pop Tart, he might actually be able to sleep.

He grumbled, trying to scoot around on his stomach. The skin on his back felt tight and hot and sore all at once and he hurt in an all over kind of way that was different from bullet wounds or knife slashes or fangs. And it didn’t help that his brain felt like a fucking stone that had been microwaved and then jammed through his forehead.

God.

And Sammy had been right: the beer had made it worse. Now he felt sick, too.

He’d tried to a cool shower, earlier, but the water had felt like bamboo needles and he’d jumped out almost immediately, cursing, refusing any help from Sam.

Who eventually stopped offering.

So here he was: alone in the dark, in pain, and too fucking prideful to say anything.

“Dean,” Sam said from across the room. “I can hear you groaning.”

“Whatever,” Dean huffed. “I’m not making a sound.”

Sam laughed. “Whatever gets you through the night, honey.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Seriously,” Sam said after a minute, “what are you doin’ over there, humping the bed?”

“Sam!” Dean barked, and damn, did that hurt. “Jesus. A little sympathy here, please.” The words were out before he realized it.

He heard Sam’s bed creak, felt his own settle as Sam perched on the edge.

“Dude, I’ve been trying to help you,” he said. “You’re the one who’s insisted on being a complete jackass.”

Dean grumbled. Ceded the point.

“Look,” Sam said. “At least take some ibuprofen or something. And you could put some aloe on your back. That might help you sleep.”

“Fine,” Dean sighed. “Ok. Fine.”

Sam brought him a glass of water and the pills without turning on the lights, and he rolled on his side, got the pills down his throat. Sam took the glass from him and pressed a plastic bottle into his hands.

“Aloe,” he said. “It’ll take the heat out of your sunburn.” Dean felt him get up, heard him move back to his bed.

“’Kay,” sighed Dean. He lay still, waiting until he heard Sam’s breathing slow, until it sounded like he was asleep, then gripped the bottle with one hand, braced himself with the other, and tried to push himself into a sitting position. Big mistake. “Damn it!” he hollered, falling back on his stomach, his skin barking, his stomach heaving. “Son of a bitch!”

Sam sighed. “Why yes, Dean,” he said, his voice heavy and slow in the dark. “I’ll be happy to help you sit up. I’m so glad you thought to ask.”

Dean was too miserable to respond.

Sam sat next to him again. “Give me the damn bottle.”

Dean handed it over without protest. His head was a blender and he felt like he was going to throw up, and he was so not giving Sam that satisfaction. So he tried to breathe, tried not focus on how fucking awful he felt. But in fact he was so wrapped up in his own wretchedness that it took him a minute to register the blessed, beautiful cold that was spreading over his shoulders and down his back.

“Christ,” Sam said, his hands moving over Dean’s skin. “This is like touching a hot plate. You’re lucky you didn’t get blisters.”

“Mmmph,” Dean sighed blissfully.

Sam put aloe over his back, his shoulders, and Dean felt like he was falling into a frosty, sno-cone slathered heaven. He sighed again, digging himself deeper into the mattress.

After a while, he felt Sam’s fingers touch his neck, asking, and he tipped his head forward.

“Almost done,” Sam said, his fingers working gently.

Dean started to drift off.

So he almost missed it.

First Sam’s fingers stopped moving. Rested against the back of Dean’s neck for a moment. A cool, reassuring pressure.

Dean's whole body exhaled.

Then he felt Sam’s breath in his ear.

His lips on his neck.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then Sam bit him, gently, and Dean’s body jolted and he groaned, the pain overwhelmed by something else.

Felt Sam’s lips curving against his neck.

“Night, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean had nothing left. He slept.

**  
Six weeks after his dad died, Sam dreamed that his hands were on fire.

He presses his palms into the flames, feels the heat shoot up into his head. He knows he's burning, can feel his skin crackling, but he doesn't care, doesn't give a damn that it's hurting him, because god it feels good. He runs his hands back and forth through the heat, lets the pleasure scorch his skin. Just dares it to stop him.

Then he stills his hand for a moment, lets it rest, lets the fire lick through his fingers. It rises up in waves towards his head, heady and sharp and sweet.

He dips his head down, tries to breathe in the flames, tries to tug them into his lungs. But they elude him, dance out of his reach. Frustrated, he leans down and pulls the fire into his mouth.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The heat scorches his lips and he snaps his teeth, cuts the flames off at the source.

In his dream, he says: "'Night, Dean."

**  
 **Wednesday**

He woke up disoriented, turned the wrong way in the bed, his head hanging over the edge. He pulled himself up and looked down at his hands, half expecting to see charred flesh hanging from the bone.

Nothing.

He slid awkwardly out of bed, trying not to wake Dean, who was still on his stomach, snoring into the pillows, which, _thank god_ , Sam thought. Dean would have been a complete bitch if he'd been both sunburned and sleep-deprived.

He saw the bottle of aloe on the dresser and frowned. It looked suspiciously like the one from his shaving kit. He wondered how Dean had known where to look for it. Damn it. He felt that flare of anger he'd had as a kid whenever Dean had messed with him by digging through his stuff, looking for something incriminating, because he was convinced that Dean would find something that he didn't even know was there, that Dean would know things about him that he didn't, hadn't figured out yet.

But there wasn't anything incriminating about aloe, for christ's sake, nothing embarrassing for Dean to dig up in his stuff, not anymore. Irrational. Silly.

Still.

He stared down at his brother's scorched back: it was angry and tight and radiating heat in waves that seemed to hover over the bed. _God_ , he thought. _Dean’s lucky he didn’t get blisters_. At least the aloe seemed to have helped him sleep. However he’d gotten his mitts on it.

Sam ducked into the shower, letting the spray catch him in the face, and started making a to-do list for the day in his head.

**  
He spent a long, fruitless morning at the library, digging through a lot of crap that told him absolutely nothing they didn't already know: quarry abandoned in 1993, two dead guys who had no known connection to said quarry, and no local legends, ghost stories, or rumors that seemed remotely related to men torn limb from limb and left like table scraps among the rocks.

All that nothing gave him time to worry over that stupid dream, to turn it over in his head, run his fingers over the grooves. Something about it was nagging at him, something that he couldn't remember, exactly. Something important.

He was haunted by the memory of the heat, the way it shot through his hands, burned into his lips.

He tightened his grip on his pen, focused on taking detailed notes on the zero information he'd uncovered. On curving his _m_ ’s just right. On stretching the _t_ ’s out to tower out over the other letters. On keeping his hands from shaking.

Dean picked him up after lunch and he changed in the car, shrugged on a suit and tie as they circled back into town, drove out to the house of wife number one of victim number two. She'd been in Little Rock when they'd made the rounds on Monday, but Sam felt like he knew her after listening to the guy's other relatives pile on, bitch about her hair and her voice and her choice of whiskey and how bad she treated him. But still. It was worth a shot.

Dean was quiet, a little grumpy, maybe, from what had turned out to be a useless hike around the courthouse. But he didn't complain, didn't bitch, just kinda sat still, staring straight ahead. Not really saying anything.

At first, Sam chalked it up to the sunburn, because it really was god-awful. Heat was billowing out from under Dean's shirt and drifting across the front seat as he bent over the steering wheel, biting his lips white.

But Sam could have sworn that he could feel Dean's eyes boring into his skull whenever he turned his head. But every time he looked back, Dean's eyes were on the road. Not on him.

But.

They were sitting in the ex-wife's living room, heavy with dust and plaster angels and posters of The Intimidator. Sam was leaning over, nodding sympathetically as she sobbed her way through a box of Kleenex, still grieving for a dude she'd divorced a decade ago, the first person they’d met who seemed genuinely sad. Who seemed like she’d lost something. Her breath caught in her throat and he looked away from her face, giving her a chance to catch her breath, and this time he caught Dean staring right at him. Like, full on open-mouthed gape.

Their eyes met and Dean's face closed like a shutter, so fast Sam could almost hear it snap shut.

Dean looked away, turned back to the woman. "We're so sorry for your loss, ma'am," he said gravelly, aiming for sincerity and landing on patronizing.

She wiped her eyes and sighed, the elderly couch exhaling with her.

"That's well and good," she said, a hundred cigarettes caught in her voice. "But sorry ain't catchin' the bastard that did this."

"No, ma'am," they said in unison.

She showed them to the door without another word.

They drove back towards the motel without speaking, Dean still driving, even though his back was so stiff that he could barely sit up.

"Dude, what is with you?" Sam asked finally.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I have a fucking sunburn that would kill a—"

"Besides that."

Dean turned his head a little. "What, that's not enough? Jesus. Thanks for your concern, man."

 _Fine_ , thought Sam. At least he'd tried to be subtle.

"Really? So that's why you've been staring at me like I've grown another head? Because of your sunburn," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dean turned away from the road again—but now he looked terrified. For a second.

"What? Sammy, come on," he blustered, "you're imagining things. Give me a break."

Sam leaned his head back on the seat. Stared at the side of Dean's head. Didn't say a word. Waited him out.

Dean was getting better at it; they made it all the way back to the motel before he cracked. He pulled the car to a stop, kept his hands wrapped tightly around the wheel. Stared straight ahead.

"Look," he said finally. "I worry about you, Sammy. You know that. And with all that stuff Dad said about the—"

"So this is about _that_?" Sam said incredulously. "This is how it's gonna be, now? You treating me like live ammo all the time? Like a damn grenade with the pin pulled out?"

"No, it's just that you—"

"I _what_?" Sam shouted. "Everything was fine yesterday! What, did I try to kill you in your sleep or something? Jesus Christ, Dean, I'm not going to—" He caught a glimpse of Dean's face and stopped. That weird, terrified look was back.

"What?" Sam said. He felt his stomach twist, suddenly unsure. "Oh my god, Dean, I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Dean's lips twisted and he relaxed a little. "No, Sammy," he said. "You didn't."

Sam stared at him. "But—?" he asked, waving his hand.

Dean looked into his face and, for a moment, Sam saw Dean at 16, at 12, as always.

Dean smiled slightly, shook his head. "Nothing. Just had a funny dream, is all. You know how that is, right? When you dream somethin' and it kind of sticks with you for a while?"

Sam looked at him. Dean was lying. Again. He could feel it.

But.

"Yeah," Sam lied right back. "Sure. I know what you mean." He tried to laugh. "So you had a me-in-danger dream, huh?"

Dean nodded, pulled the keys from the ignition, not looking at him. "Somethin' like that," he said, sliding out.

Sam watched him unlock the door and disappear inside the room. He sat alone in the Impala, fighting a rush of anger. Dean had finally come clean to him about their dad, and not two days later, he was already keeping another secret? That had to be some kind of record. Even for Dean.

He took a deep breath and opened the car door.

At dinner, Dean was more like himself, making cat eyes at the waitress, talking with his mouth full, relating his escapades at the courthouse and the particular charms of a redheaded girl named Donna who’d made sympathetic noises about Dean's sunburn.

He waggled his eyebrows at Sam. "You know, like _very_ sympathetic," he smirked.

"Sure," Sam said, poking at his salad. He was hot and uncomfortable. Tired. Didn't really feel like playing the "let's pretend that everything's fine" game.

Dean tilted his head, studied him. "You ok, Sammy?" he asked, his voice deliberate. Careful.

Sam could hear what he really meant: you still ok with this whole me having to kill you bullshit?

Sam looked up. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm ok."

Dean hesitated, catching his lip in his teeth. "It's—you know it's ok if you want to talk about—I mean, I wouldn't mind if you—"

Sam cut him off. "Yeah, ok, I got it. Thanks. But I'm fine." He stabbed a tomato for emphasis, stuffed it in his mouth. End of discussion.

Dean didn't believe him. He could tell. But he also knew that Dean didn't want to have this conversation anymore than he did, not really, and he'd take the easy out when it was offered. Damn straight.

Dean sighed and sat back, reached for his wallet. "Yeah, Sammy, ok. Whatever you say," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the lunch counter.

Sam stared out at the street, watching the pick-up trucks cruise by, the drivers calling to each other, waving, Rebel flags flickering in their back windows.

He just needed to sleep. A few hours of rest and he really would be fine. Would be able to laugh off the shadows of that weird dream and Dean lying to his face again and the fury burning in his throat and make some actual progress on this fucking case.

 _Yeah_ , he thought. _That's what I need_.

Sleep.

**  
He dreamed that he was trapped.

He's in a hot, dark space, stuffy and close and familiar, and he's stuck, caught like an insect in amber.

But he's not alone.

He can feel Dean under his hands, his body solid and sure beneath his own. Except Dean is trembling, radiating fear that he can taste in the back of his throat.

There isn't any sound, wherever they are, and the silence pushes on his ears, presses into his head. Hurts.

It's so quiet that he can hear Dean breathing in his ear, ragged and fast.

He feels dark and ephemeral all at once, and his hands are burning again, caught between the flames and the bed. His lips are scorched, melted against Dean's throat. His arms are curled around Dean's shoulders, keeping him down. They're both. Trapped.

The darkness closes in and he can't breathe, so he pulls air from Dean's mouth, leaning into him and taking until he feels Dean's breath sputter. Dean struggles beneath him, tries to shove him away, but he grabs Dean's hair, hard, holds his head fast.

"Not yours," he hisses, his mouth hovering above Dean's. "Don't belong to you. Not.”

Somehow, in the dark, he can see Dean's eyes shining, can see himself reflected there, this bright hot figure whose smile cuts through the black.

Dean jerks his head, snarling, throws his weight to one side, bucking, but he doesn't let go. Doesn’t want to. Just pushes his body down, shoves one knee between Dean's legs and plants the other at his hip. Pinned.

"Not like this," Dean begs in the dream. "No, Sammy, no, not—"

He leans in, filling Dean's face with his own. So that he’s all that Dean can see. His lips curl, taunting, reveling in the rage that's radiating from somewhere inside of him, deep and dug and hungry.

"Dean," he says, heavy and certain. The answer to every question.

And now it's quiet again: their hips locked together, breathing in harmony, his mouth still floating above Dean’s, Dean who is afraid. Of him. He can see it in his brother’s eyes, smell it on his face. Under his jaw. On his lips. Wants to taste it.

He shoves his tongue into Dean's mouth, groaning, not giving Dean any choice, digging himself deeper into the bed, driving his body down, taking all of Dean for himself. He peels his fingers into Dean's back, pressing, pulling, possessing, even as Dean resists, rocking, shoving, trying to get out from under his mouth.

 _Mine_ , his hands tell Dean's flesh, ripping and tearing and caressing all at once. He swallows Dean’s cries of pain, his fear, and it makes his heart burn and ripple and stretch with pleasure.

He is a miasma, he is a smoke who envelops, devours, and his body tells Dean how much he hates him. Needs him. Owns him.

"Mine," he growls into Dean's mouth, shoving the word back with his tongue, thrusting his thigh against Dean's cock. It arches up to meet him and Dean makes this terrible, wonderful noise deep in his throat and tight in his mouth and he stops fighting, lets his voice his hands his mouth cover them both in flames that cut a halo around them, that follow Dean's hands as they trail down his body, grab his hips as Dean rocks against him, singing grief and want into his ear.

In the dream, he hisses, wrenches Dean's hands away from his body, pins them down, and sets his own rhythm, shoving his cock into Dean's until he's seeing stars, until Dean's voice breaks beneath him, winds its way tight around his throat. He looks into Dean's face, flushed and fearful and his, finally his, and he comes so hard it hurts, so hard that the stars catch him unaware and shove him back into the darkness.

**  
 **Thursday**

Sam woke up with a gasp, like a shot, all at once: one moment he was staring into Dean’s eyes and coming like a black hot wave and the next he was alone in their motel room, blankets strewn on the floor and a pillow over his head.

He looked around wildly, tried to draw a deep breath, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest.

It was early—not even really light out yet. Gray. He shook his head, tried to clear away the last of the dream, but it wasn't his mind that needed convincing. Oh Jesus. He turned bright red, tried to clean himself up with the sheet. Thank god Dean wasn't there to see this. He'd have never heard the end of it.

He heard the growl of the Impala, suddenly, and he leapt out of bed, bolted for the safety of the shower.

He let the water run hot, as hot as it would go. Stood under the spray with his head in his hands.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He thought that he’d convinced himself that he was ok. That he was fine, absolutely fucking calm, about what his dad had told Dean. What Dean had told him. He'd kept telling himself that he didn't really understand what the big deal was.

So he might become a monster.

So Dean might have to kill him.

Ok.

If it were anyone else, he'd be freaked. Terrified of what he'd have to become for that to happen.

But Dean—Dean had promised him. If it got bad—if he got bad—Dean would take care of it. Take care of him. Kill him.

Fine.

What could he do about it now, exactly? What could either of them do?

Nothing.

So. Better to wait, right? Just sit and wait and bide his time and trust Dean to do whatever had to be done. Let him handle it. They'd made a deal.

Dean couldn't break it.

He wouldn't.

He'd better as fuck not.

But.

If part of him was pissed at Dean—was furious with him, filled with a red rage that threatened to burn him from the inside out—that was just a part. A small part. Most of him, he’d told himself, was totally fine with the whole thing.

Most of him.

Was totally fine that Dean had kept this from him for so long. Had neglected to mention that, oh, by the way, Sammy, you're in real danger of becoming a homicidal demonic douchebag with delusions of hell-raising, and, oh yeah, I might have to put you down like a fucking dog. Because Dad told me to.

Yeah.

Most of him.

But maybe he wasn’t ok. Maybe he wasn’t as calm about this bullshit as he thought, because, oh god—

He felt the anger from his dream rise again in his throat, clamped his teeth down on it, hard, gripped his head tighter in his hands. Turned his face into the spray and willed the water to wash it all away. Threaded his fingers through his wet hair. Felt them wrap around Dean's throat. His arms. His face. Dean's tongue in his mouth. Dean shifting under him, reaching for him, calling to him with fingers like brands on his skin. Him pushing, Dean giving, his fury leached out by need. Want. Dean.

Which, fine. That had always been the equation in his head: one and one equals Dean. He could deal with that; hell, he _had_ dealt with it, ignored it, smothered it, fucking killed it for as long as he could remember, but this? This was so much more than he had ever let himself feel, even in the middle of the night when it would be so easy to let it slip, to draw comfort from naming it or holding it or just letting himself think, really think about what it would be like if they were—

And suddenly the dream was right back in his face again, taunting him, pushing Dean's mouth against his, filling his ears with Dean's voice, rough and smashed and sad and shooting him full of fury, with this need to hurt to punish Dean until he was—

 _Oh jesus fuck_ , he thought wildly. _What in the hell_.

Dean pounded on the door. "Hey, leave me some hot water, will ya?"

Sam opened his eyes and reached for the tap. Watched the water slide into the drain. Pretended his anger could do the same.

No.

He could control it. He would control it. He was fine.

"All right, Dean, jeez, give me a damn minute," he shouted.

Yeah.

He was fine.

Right.

**  
They spent a long day running in circles, both of them stupid and bitchy and it took like three times longer than it should have to figure out what they should be doing about this goddamn case, and then to do it, and then to figure out what the fuck they’d just done and what it meant, so by the time they made it back to the room after dinner they weren’t speaking to each other, and Dean wouldn’t even fucking look at him by the time they turned the light out and it was another day wasted in Arkansas chasing shadows, no resolution in sight.

The worst kind of day.

**  
That night, Sam dreamed about Dean.

But this time he doesn’t even touch Dean before the bastard is in his face, before he’s covered by Dean’s body his tongue his hands and he wakes up with his fingers scarlet with Dean’s blood, with the noise Dean makes when he comes caught in his heart.

After that, he didn’t sleep.

**  
 **Friday**

At breakfast, he watched Dean knock back cup after cup of coffee, draining them as fast as the waiter set them down.

Dean didn’t look up until he’d finished the fourth. He looked almost as tired as Sam felt.

“Bad dreams again?” Sam asked, trying to make conversation, trying to put the previous day behind them, but his voice sounded sharp, even to him.

Dean blinked. “Uh,” he said. “I guess so.”

Silence.

Dean tugged at his tie. He was headed back to the courthouse, hoping to trade on Donna's sympathy for another look at the deeds to the quarry. “Just a hunch,” he’d said as they sat down, wincing as his back hit the booth. “Sunburn,” he’d said quickly. “Stiff as a bitch.”

And Sam was—what was he supposed to be doing today? For a second, damn it—he couldn’t remember. God, this stupid case had them both going fucking nowhere fast and maybe it would be better if they both weren’t so tired, if he didn’t feel like he was—

He tilted his head. Closed his eyes.

He could feel Dean looking at him, trying not to stare and failing.

“Sam,” Dean said carefully. “You know, I can handle this on my own.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open, narrowed.

“I mean, I might have better luck with Donna if I’m flyin’ solo, you know what I mean?”

 _No_ , Sam thought wearily. _I have no fucking clue, Dean_.

But what he said was:

“Uh huh. Sure.”

Dean caught his eye, then looked away a little too quickly. “‘Kay,” he said. “So—why don’t I drop you off at the motel? You can get some sleep or—”

Sam felt a scowl dig into his face. “Goddamn it, quit treating me like a little kid. I’m _fine_ , I’m just tired and I’m—” he said, his voice pitching up into a whine that complete undercut his argument. Damn it.

Dean waited. Sam tried again.

“Look, I’m ok, really, and I can help, Dean, I _can_ , I—” Shit. Even worse.

Dean smiled. A little too gently.

“I know you can,” he said. “But if my hunch is right, I’m gonna need you at like 100%, Sam. So, you know, you’d really be doing me a favor.”

“I’m just—” Sam wobbled. Caught his head in his hand again. “I’m sorry, I can—” He felt Dean’s hand on his head, his fingers on his cheek, for a second.

“’S ok, Sammy,” he murmured.

Sam shook his head. He felt his eyes stinging with tears, which was just dumb. He hadn’t cried because he was tired since he was a kid. And now here he was, ready to put on the waterworks in the middle of fucking Arkansas because he hadn’t really slept in three days because all he could think about Dean, big stupid Dean who was being nice to him, goddamn it, when if he knew what Sam had been dreaming, had been doing to Dean in his dreams, he would probably fucking punch him, would hate him, would maybe see it as a sign of Sam going bad and hell, maybe he’d be right and maybe—

Dean touched his cheek again. Thoughtfully ignored Sam’s tears.

“Be right back,” he said.

Sam just nodded, pushed his face into his hands as Dean slid out, paid the check, came back for him, and he was careful to keep his head down on the way to the car. Not to let anybody see how fucked up he was. Because he knew it was written all over his face.

Dean dropped him off without a word and Sam stumbled into the room, let himself collapse on the freshly made bed still wrapped in his coat and tie.

 _Just for a minute_ , he told himself. _Just close my eyes for a second and then I’ll_ —

He woke up with his jacket bunched under him and his tie in a knot around his throat. He sat up, felt his hair flinging itself in all directions, his mouth dry and salty.

Looked at the clock.

It was after four.

He cursed and got up, shaking himself like a dog. And realized, all of a sudden, that he wasn’t tired anymore.

That he hadn’t dreamed.

That he’d just—slept.

No fire. No fury. No Dean. Just—sleep.

And damn, he couldn’t help it: he grinned and stretched and let himself relax, kind of drooped over a little and let his body go slack.

Sleep. Awesome.

When Dean burst in an hour later, Sam was still kinda blissed out, stretched across the bed in a t-shirt and jeans. Listening to but not watching the local news.

Dean stopped. Grinned.

“Well, well,” he said, kicking the door closed. “Looks like the princess found her pea, eh?”

“Shut up,” Sam said cheerfully. He rolled over and watched Dean methodically strip off his suit and fold himself into his jeans, whistling the whole time. Usually a good sign.

Then he turned, and Sam could see red streaks cutting through his undershirt.

“Jesus!” he said. “Dude, what’d you do to yourself?”

“Huh?” Dean asked, half-turning. “What’re you talkin’ about?” He caught a glimpse of his back and he spun around, turning his back to the wall. “Ah,” he said, flushing. “It’s just my sunburn.”

Sam scoffed and stood up, reaching for him. “Since when does sunburn bleed, jackass?”

Dean ducked out of his hands, backpedaling towards the door. “Itched like a son-of-a-bitch," he managed, straightening. "Guess I scratched too hard."

Sam stared at him. He was lying. Sam was sure of it.

Then it dawned on him.

“Ohhh,” he said, grinning. “So. You had to play a little you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours with the redhead, huh?”

Dean looked startled. “What? Oh. Ohhh,” he said, letting a leer climb over his features. “Yeah, well, Sammy, you know. Gotta do what you gotta do. It’s all for King and Country, though, right?”

Sam snorted and threw himself back on the bed. “You’re such a slut, Dean.”

“Hey, only when I have to be, bub,” Dean said, thwacking him with a folder. “Now check this out and tell me if my whoring was worth it, or what.”

Sam opened it and held the pages in front of his face. There were at least dozen copies in the folder, blurry copies of deeds going back at least 150 years. He frowned, and for the first time in two days, his brain actually kicked into gear, started humming through the tiny print, words clicking one after the other into place. Into some sort of order.

He read methodically for a while, then flipped himself up and grabbed a stack of paper from the nightstand. Went back to reading, mumbling to himself.

Dean had worked through two cheeseburgers, most of the fries, and was halfway through his second beer by the time Sam sat up, shaking his head.

“How the hell did you put this together?” he asked.

Dean stuck his lip out. Followed by his tongue. “C’mon, dude, you’re not the only one who can read, you know.”

“I know, Dean, but—” Sam grinned, and damn, did that feel good. “This is like—this is awesome.”

Dean bowed. “Thank you, thank you. Just throw money.”

Sam threw a pillow at his head instead.

Dean caught it and wandered over to the bed, sat gingerly among the papers, holding the pillow in his lap. He pointed. “So I remembered seeing this name here, Watts, on one of these deeds the other day. It kind of stuck in my head, you know, ‘cause—”

“’Cause you have a thing for lightbulbs?” Sam said, grabbing the beer from Dean’s fist.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You are such a fucking nerd, Sammy. I don’t know why I remembered it, ok, but I did, and I saw it again when I was reading some of your research crap yesterday, but it wasn’t until this morning that I—”

Sam tapped the bottle against his knee. “What? When did you do that?”

Dean paused, and a flicker of that weird terrified look he’d had the other day moved across his eyes. Or did it?

“Yesterday morning,” he said smoothly, yanking his beer back. “Before breakfast. Couldn’t sleep, so I drove around for a while. And read some of the crap you had piled everywhere.” He tossed back the rest of the beer. Dared Sam to contradict him.

 _Oh_ , Sam thought. Remembering how out of it he’d been the day before. All ragey and frustrated and out of his mind with the thought of Dean under his hands, under his hips, his mouth—

“Uh, ok,” he said quickly. “And so you saw ‘Watts’—”

“Here,” Dean said, nudging a document with his bottle. “This like really old Social Security thingy that the first guy’s widow gave you from the bottom of his lockbox or whatever. Right? See, look at his grandmother’s mother’s name.”

“So Watts was his family’s name, like way back,” Sam continued, pulling another paper from the stack, laying them side-by-side. “Like three generations back. And the same for the second vic.”

“Yup. I found that at the courthouse. Well,” he said, lips curing back from his teeth. “Donna might have helped.”

“And Watts is the name of the people who owned the quarry—”

“Originally, yeah. Until like 1880 something.”

Sam leaned back. Nudged Dean’s shoulder.

“Dude. Seriously. This is great.”

Dean preened. “Keep talking, baby.”

Sam smacked him and Dean fell back, chuckling.

“Ok, ok. So tomorrow, you got a hot date with the historical society and some awesome death certificates or whatever, and you get to figure out how this Watts thing fits into all this. While I am gonna sit around on my ass all day and watch _The Price Is Right_. Just to balance the scales.”

Sam stretched out beside him. “More like _General Hospital_ , dude. I know how you are about your stories.”

Dean elbowed him half-heartedly. Then he leaned his knee into Sam’s. Just a little. Sam closed his eyes. Sighed. It felt easy. Comfortable. Almost like normal. He turned his head. Let it roll onto Dean’s shoulder.

They laid there for a while, until the local news switched over to _Wheel of Fortune_ and Dean started shouting “Buy a vowel!” even before anyone had spun the wheel and Sam sat up, shoved a pillow in his face, and Dean flailed, whacking him with the beer bottle and honking. He rammed a knee up into Sam’s gut and pushed, knocking the wind out of him, and he sat up, panting, grabbed the pillow and slammed it over Sam’s head, held it there, his knee planted in Sam’s chest.

Sam was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, never mind the damn pillow over his face.

“Uncle!” Dean demanded, digging his knee in. “Say uncle, Sam!”

“You do love a man in uniform,” Sam managed and Dean snickered, punched him in the side. Let the pillow up and grinned into Sam’s face.

“Had enough?”

Sam smirked. “Did ya ask Donna that?”

“If you have to ask, sunshine,” Dean said with a wink, “you’re not doin’ it right.” He shifted, rolling up and off, turned back to the TV. “Buy a _vowel_ , you moron!” he bellowed. “Jesus!”

**  
He dreamed that he was happy.

Dean grins up into his mouth, hands digging into his hair. They kiss for a long time, slow and steady and frantic and back to slow until he’s shaking, vibrating with need and something else and Dean kind of pushes him off and over and slides down his body, tugs everything out of the way and manhandles his cock and he feels like he’s levitating, defying gravity to put himself completely in Dean’s hands until Dean laughs at him, with him, mouth flush against his cock and then he falls to earth, crashes against Dean’s tongue and lets himself be struck by lightning. Twice.

He woke up with a smile on his face.

**  
 **Saturday**

The two men had shared a great-great grandmother Watts, a rich woman whose family had originally owned the quarry. She was the last of her line, beautiful and young and wealthy, but she’d married for love, an older man from New Orleans, and they’d settled down outside of Pine Bluff.

Sam shook his head, drove the spade back into the ground.

But then some long-lost relative of hers had shown up, a cousin or something, somebody with an ax to grind, turned bitter by old family grievances, and he’d outed her to the husband as an octoroon: 1/8 black on her father’s side. She claimed she hadn’t known, and Sam tended to believe her, though the newspapers were pretty thin on details. Not really dinner table conversation in those days.

The shovel cracked into rotting wood.

Even twenty years after the Civil War ended, that kind of bloodline wasn’t okay, down here, still bordered on criminal, and she’d been cast out by her husband, shunned by the town, ignored by the courts when her husband had seized the quarry. Because black people weren’t allowed—socially, culturally, maybe even by law— to own property down here, even then, even after the War was over.

Dean offered his arm and helped Sam climb out of the grave.

So all that was hers had been taken away. Wasn’t her fault, not any of it, but she’d ended up alone and penniless, forbidden from seeing her children.

So she’d killed herself, thrown herself into a thresher in the middle of summer.

And that’s what she hadn’t shown up sooner: she’d been erased from the town’s memory—the deed changed to her husband’s name, her children’s racial heritage rewritten by remarriage, her name excised from everyone’s lips. Only the government had remembered, the last threads of her name her family kept alive on a crumbling deed, on an old Social Security application. The significance, the meaning of her family name? Lost. And look what that had cost.

Two lives, two dead guys, shredded and scattered among the rocks.

Sam shuddered, clutched his elbows as he watched Dean dump salt and accelerant over the broken remnants of a pauper’s coffin. And whatever of her they’d been able to find. To bury.

They were in the middle of a construction site. A new feed store or quickie mart or something, on a piece of land about 10 miles out of town, one that was far enough from the main roads that it was just now falling to the crane, the bulldozer, the back hoe. Property of the state that had been sold, broken. Disturbed.

The paupers’ cemetery hadn’t been marked, not really, and Sam didn’t blame the developer, for once. If you didn’t what to look for—the sunken earth, the squat stone markers delineating the little plot, the tumbled remains of cheap tombstones—there’s no way you would have seen it, not in the midst of all this scrub and low brush.

Dean set down the salt can and reached for his lighter.

They weren’t totally sure which was the right grave, not really, though Sam had made an educated guess.

So they’d burned the ones on either side, too. Just in case.

This one went up like all the others, a great whoosh of heat and light and then a steady crackle, a fast burn, until only ashes remained.

Sam sighed.

“What?” Dean asked, squinting at him in the darkness.

“It’s just—those guys didn’t deserve that,” Sam said. “To die like that, I mean. They didn’t know they were related, and they sure as hell didn’t know that they had anything to do with Miss Watts here.”

They were quiet for a minute.

“No,” Dean allowed, stretching. “They didn’t. But payback’s a bitch. Even 120 years later.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “I guess she was tired of being forgotten.”

“Getting wiped out of a family tree will do that to you, I imagine,” Dean agreed. He picked up the shovel, started tossing dirt back into the smoldering hole.

Sam watched him for a while, feeling the day drag at him, noticing the moon falling faster towards the horizon.

He must have zoned out, because the next thing he knew, Dean was nudging him into the front seat, tucking the door shut behind.

At the motel, Dean steered him into the bathroom, closed the door, and Sam stripped off, showered, and was half asleep even as he fell into bed, even as he heard Dean singing to himself in the shower.

He drifted, his mind muddied by the documentary that Dean had left on, some History Channel thing about Vichy. About DeGaulle. About the Resistance.

He floated through the streets of Paris, hiding from Nazis in doorways, welcoming the Americans with open arms.

He heard Dean come out of the bathroom. The TV snap off. Followed by the light.

Felt Dean’s hand on his cheek.

Felt Dean’s sigh brush over his face.

And then he slept.

**  
He dreamed of Dean. Again. Always.

In the dream, Dean is waiting for him, hovering beside him in the dark, fire to his smoke, his face guarded by shadow. He closes his eyes, Dean's fingers moving over his face, thumb sliding across his lips, leeching the tension from his body.

He shivers, rolls toward Dean's touch, his hands fluttering, uncertain. Lost.

Dean reaches for him, pulls him down, kisses him. He is frozen, for a moment, stiff, trapped again in amber: part of him still wants to take but Dean is giving, offering his mouth his hands his cock to him, whispering words against his mouth that he doesn't want to hear.

Part of him is still afraid, afraid to open his eyes, afraid that if he does he'll wake up with Dean's throat under his hands, with his eyes burning yellow in his head, hungry and furious and alone. But Dean's hands in his hair, Dean's tongue curled around his own: they don’t leave any room for the embers of his fury because there's only Dean's lips on his, Dean's fingers tracing his thigh, Dean's heart beating under his hand.

Dean murmurs against his mouth, something low and warm, and he arches up, catches Dean's head in his hands, stills his fingers around Dean's neck, turns it in his hands so he can reach all of that beautiful mouth. Dean moans and slides up and over him, across and onto his body.

In the dream, they fit in this way that scares him. Because it feels right.

He relaxes, drops one hand from Dean's head and trails his fingers down, swallows Dean's hip with his palm. Squeezes. Presses his body up into Dean's as he fucks his mouth with his tongue, moving Dean's head to meet him, not letting him breathe. Afraid to breathe himself.

Dean is so open, his mouth slack, wanting, bending his body so that their cocks collide for a moment. His fingers tighten on Dean's hip and he groans, his body suddenly grounded, centered on his cock as Dean pushes against him, straining to reach him, moves over him faster, panting, chanting his name over and over again.

He opens his eyes, letting himself see Dean in the dark, full and hard and so ready for him that he’s afraid, so he swings, suddenly, flips them over so fast that Dean is beneath him, his hands on Dean's cock so quick that he can feel Dean still arching as he drags his tongue over the tip, folds his lips over the head.

Dean cries out, shoves his whole body up, voice ragged, hips trembling, groaning into the darkness, saying something that’s out of focus, like a radio station just out of range. He pulls Dean's cock into his mouth, heavy and bitter and sweet, slides his tongue up and back, down and over and around, drinking in Dean's scent, his voice, the feel of his body trapped, wanting, pleading. He shoves his own hips into the sheets, rubbing his cock raw, fighting the urge to stand up and push Dean to his knees, shove his cock into that hot sweet mouth, fuck Dean's tongue until he comes, then kiss his come out of Dean's mouth.

He scrapes his nails down Dean's hips, moving with him as Dean bucks into his mouth, fighting, hands digging into his shoulders, voice spilling into his ears.

He hears Dean sigh, "Sammy. Oh Sammy—" and he sounds so happy, so perfect and whole.

In the dream, his own whole body stiffens, holds, as Dean wails, the most beautiful, broken sound he's ever heard, and bursts inside his mouth, hips straining, body shaking until there is nothing left.

For a moment, it’s still. They’re both. Trapped.

But then he can't wait and he slides Dean from his mouth and stands up, reaching, yanking Dean upright and pulling him onto the floor, tugging him to his knees, shoving his cock in Dean's face, and he almost comes just from the look Dean gives him, staring up, tender and spent and heated all at once.

With a growl, he shoves his cock forward and Dean opens his mouth, takes him in, caresses his bare legs as he sucks, gently. Soothing. Soft.

It's not enough.

He wants so badly he can feel it in his teeth, and he starts heaving his hips, pushing his cock deeper into Dean, feeling Dean's fingertips graze his stomach, slide between his legs, across his back. He looks down and watches his cock glide in and out of Dean's mouth, over his lips, around the edge of his tongue. Looks down and sees Dean's cock twitching, reaching for him again.

Something in him breaks, in this dream.

He grabs Dean's shoulders, tries to free his cock.

"Fuck you," he stammers, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. "Need to—let me fuck you, Dean—I—"

Dean stops, pulls back, his mouth moving, his cock rising, his face love and need and amusement. Happiness.

Dean stands up, pulls his head down, and kisses him, hard, shoves their bodies together, holds him as their tongues battle, as they gasp for breath. Then Dean slides away, grinning, teasing, and yanks him down onto the bed, goes pliant and supple under his hands, reaches for him, turns for him, opens for him.

He fumbles, finds something cold and silky on his fingers, slides them in, gently, urgently, finally, running his other hand over Dean’s back, feeling the tension ripple through the hot skin and into his palm, feeling the grooves his fingers dug into that flesh and stroking, tracing them with his lips, not wanting to tear, wanting only to please. Dean is shaking, sighing, and he leans down, presses his mouth behind Dean’s ear as he shoves his fingers in again and Dean curves beneath him, pushing back, reaching for him, moaning, voice falling through the air between them.

He pulls away, keeping one hand on Dean’s back as he rolls the condom over his cock. His fingers are shaking, but for once, he isn’t afraid.

“Dean,” he says, steadying himself. That name, the question for all the answers.

“Sam,” Dean says. Softly.

In the dream, he—Sam—eases himself into Dean’s body.

He pushes once. Twice. Three times. Until neither of them can move.

He stops. Waits.

Then Dean laughs, ragged and unsteady, but Sam can hear the smile in his voice.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy, would you just fuck me already?”

“So romantic, Dean,” Sam pants, but his body follows Dean’s command, like it always has, and he starts to move, leaning back and easing and trying to be gentle and even in Sam’s dream, Dean is a complete jerk as always and just shoves his body back so that their hips collide, slamming Sam into a rhythm that he can’t control, that pushes him so far so fast and Dean is groaning and cooing all at once, begging and demanding in the same breath.

“Fuck, Sam, yes—like that—oh, please, Sammy, don’t—goddamn it, harder! Sammy, please, baby—”

Sam’s senses start shutting down, one by one by one, like switches being flipped by Dean’s voice, his body, the feel of his skin under Sam’s mouth, until all he knows is his cock and Dean’s voice and his body and the feel of his skin under Sam’s mouth and his—

“Sam!” Dean screams. “Yes, Sammy, yes, yeah, like that—oh, Sam, I—yes—Oh baby, whatever you want, whatever you want, I’ll—oh—just don’t stop, please don’t—”

His body his voice go still and Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, his wrists brushing Dean’s cock and Dean fucking bellows, this heavy hot noise that makes his whole body shake, that traps Sam’s cock deep inside him, and he comes and comes and Sam can’t help but move, can only fuck him harder as his skin shudders under Sam’s hands, as his voice pales and fades and drops to a whisper as Sam shoots inside of him and quivers, groans, goes slack over his torn flesh.

“Sam,” he murmurs. “Sammy. Wake up.”

“”M not asleep,” Sam says, when he can.

Oh.

Shit.

He sat up, slid out of Dean as fast as he could, and fucking ran into the bathroom. Stared at himself in the mirror, half expecting to see black eyes staring back.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Sam,” he heard Dean bark. “Get your ass out here.”

“No!”

“Saaam,” Dean said again. A warning. “Goddamn it. Get out here.”

Sam tossed the condom in the trash. Stomped out, furious. “What in the fuck, Dean?!” he shouted.

Dean sounded taken aback. “What the—what are you yelling at me for? You’re the one who jumped me!” He reached over and snapped on the light, looking pouty and exhausted and kinda insulted.

Sam wavered. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally. Though he wasn't sure that he really believed that.

Dean snorted. Sighed. “Come over here,” he said wearily.

Sam perched on the edge of the bed, ready to run.

“Look,” Dean said carefully. “You’ve been sleepwalking or—something—for the last few nights, uh—” he looked away for a second, “ever since I got sunburned. Since you put aloe on my back.”

Sam frowned. “I didn’t put aloe on your back, jackass, I’m not you’re goddamn cabana—” and then remembered the aloe on the nightstand. The same aloe, he saw, that was now spread all over the sheets, all over his fingers, all over Dean’s—

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Dean shot back.

Sam thought for a second, hearing the pieces fall into place, but: “And you just let me!?” he said, incredulous.

“I let you sleep fuck me? Yeah, ok? Yeah,” Dean said, crossing his arms across his chest.

“But,” Sam said. “Why?”

Dean looked over at him. Furious. Sad. “Why do you think, asshole?”

Oh.

Shit.

Sam closed his eyes for a second, talked himself through it, hearing his voice roll up an octave. “And you were gonna just let me keep doing it? Just keep not telling me that I was fucking molesting you in your sleep? Damn it, Dean, I thought maybe I was going fucking crazy! Or that maybe—” he stopped. Afraid that saying it might make it so.

“What?”

“That maybe—I was going dark side.”

Dean tilted his head. Then he grinned like a jackal. "Funny, I don’t remember Darth Vader fucking Obi-Wan.”

Sam's mouth fell open. “What? You are so not Obi-Wan, dude! Skywalker, maybe, on a good day, or a Tauntaun—”

Dean hooted. “At least you figured out your role, Sammy. Maybe that explains all of your heavy breathing back there.” He lowered his voice and threw his head back. “Oh, Dean. Oh, use the Force, Dean!” he moaned, banging the headboard for emphasis.

Sam leapt at him. “You are so delusional!” he barked, slamming an elbow into Dean’s chest. “If anyone was heavy breathing, tiger, it was you!” He planted his hands on Dean’s shoulders and leaned into his face. “Sammy,” he breathed, his voice high and sweet. “Oh, Sammy, please, oh fuck me just like that—”

Dean struggled, laughing. “Whatever,” he wheezed. “Whatever, dude.”

Sam leaned down, pressed his mouth against Dean’s ear. “Oh, Sammy, yes, oh—baby, give me your cock—”

Dean snickered. “Yeah, ok, sunshine,” he said into Sam’s hair. “Whatever gets you through the night. Just remember—you came onto me.”

Sam sat up a little, indignant. “And you let me!”

“And you didn’t go dark side,” Dean said. Serious. He reached up and stroked Sam’s cheek. Let his fingers rest there for a minute. “Okay? You’re fucked up as hell, but you're no demon's bitch.” Beat. “You’re my bitch, bitch.”

“Oh that is it,” Sam huffed, slamming his weight down on Dean again.

“Hey, I didn’t rip your fucking skin to shreds,” Dean managed. “You owe me for pain and suffering. And for dry cleaning.”

Sam shifted. Pressed his cock against Dean’s hip. Just to watch him flinch.

“So I owe you?” he hummed. “Didn’t get enough earlier?”

Dean tried to laugh, but Sam ducked down, turned his mouth into Dean’s neck.

“Um,” Dean sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not. If I have to tell you these things, Sam, then you’re not paying close enough attention.”

Sam raised his head, chuckling. Saw his reflection in Dean’s eyes. Dark and blissful.

And—

 _And how is this ok_? he thought suddenly, terrified, and it must have shown on his face because Dean squeezed his shoulder, hard. Sighed.

"Don't," he said, his eyes flickering. "Okay? Don't."

Sam blinked.

Didn't say anything, just bumped his forehead into Dean's, gently. Eased down beside him and reached for the light.

Dean tucked himself into Sam's chest. Felt Sam's arm fold over his waist. His fingers brush Dean's back.

"And keep your mitts off my pillows, bitch," he murmured, snaking his arm through Sam's.

Sam snorted. Sleepy. "You're such a badass, Obi-Wan," he sighed. "They teach you that in Jedi school?"

"These are not the pillows you're looking for," Dean rumbled and Sam cracked up, snuffling into Dean's hair.

"Hilarious," he managed.

"Damn straight," Dean said. He sat up, grinning against Sam's shoulder. "Now will you shut up so I can get some sleep? Jesus. Some asshole’s been keeping me awake at night."

Sam kissed him, and he fell asleep with Sam's smile tucked into his mouth.

**  
Almost seven weeks after their dad died, Dean and Sam slept.

No dreams. No visions. Just sleep, full and easy and sweet.

They lay entwined, Dean's waist caught in Sam's arms. Sam's lips in Dean's hair. Dean's fingers wrapped around Sam's wrist. Deep, comfortable breaths filling the space between them.

They slept, echoes of a hundred future nights gathered in the shadows around them. This job, the next, and the one after. Their dad the demon the visions and gods knew what else. Hovering. Just waiting in between the dark and the light.

Impatient for them to wake up.

But for now, they held them all at bay.

And slept.


End file.
